


In The Blood

by chemm80



Series: Body Work 'Verse [3]
Category: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-30
Updated: 2009-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wonders what the hell is the deal with this guy.  It’s not like they can’t keep their hands off each other—he doesn’t even think about sex in connection with Jax when they’re in public—but somehow every time Dean’s around Jax this is where they wind up.  It’s only the third time he’s seen Jax and this is still the most regular thing he’s had with anybody since high school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Blood

Dean didn’t decide he needed a pit stop at this particular bar because of the custom Harley parked in front. He was tired and he wanted a drink. And Charming was actually on his way back from Palo Alto.

So when the plain gray arc of dirty floor that’s been commanding his full attention since he sat down at the table is abruptly invaded by a pair of white sneakers under baggy jeans, Dean totally doesn’t have to fake his surprise. It’s just a coincidence, really.

“Man, you look like shit,” the shoes’ owner observes without preamble.

Dean rolls his eyes upward without moving his head and meets blue eyes full of humor and a hint of a question. Dean gives a little nod of acknowledgment.

“Probably. But I make it work for me,” Dean says, tipping back his bottle. “Kind of underdressed there yourself, aren’t you, Jax? Where’s your little uniform?”

Jax grins.

“It’s a ‘cut’ to you, heathen. And I’m undercover. You know…mingling with the regular people. Don’t want to forget about the little man.”

“Now, Jax, don’t be so hard on yourself. I told you…it’s not the size, it’s what you do with it…oh, sorry…we were talking about your dick, right?”

“I don’t recall you complaining, motherfucker,” Jax growls, smacking Dean lightly on the back of the head and pulling up a chair. Dean gives him a shove to the shoulder as he sits down, but there’s no heat in it.

Dean hasn’t seen Jax in a couple of months, since the last time he checked on Sam. They’re developing a sick little routine now, Dean and John. The tension ramps up over the course of a few weeks, until one of them snaps and makes an excuse to “just swing by” Palo Alto. It’s fucked up, not the least because Dean has to drive miles out of his way just to see if his own brother is still alive. What’s nearly as bad is that by the time one of them actually hits the road, Dean’s about to crack, in dire need of some time apart from his dad.

Calling them any kind of family these days is a joke.

The creak of Jax’s chair as he leans back draws Dean’s attention. Every time Dean makes one of these stupid surveillance runs, ghosting around the Stanford campus like it’s a job or something, he feels like he’s ripped a scab off a wound. Sometimes he needs a little time to get the fresh bleeding stopped, catch his breath again before he moves on. And Jax—he just sprawls lazily in his chair, drinking quietly, hasn’t asked a single question since he walked up. Dean’s almost pathetically grateful, but eventually he breaks the easy silence.

“So, how’s your mom? I bet she misses me,” Dean says, smirking.

Jax cuts his eyes at Dean and snorts softly.

“Take your best shot, bud. Just don’t blame me if your balls end up hanging from her rearview mirror.”

Dean’s distracted from his comeback by an odd little stir of motion by the door. It takes him a second to see through the crowd, but when he does all he can manage is a low whistle.

Because _Jesus_ , the woman that just walked in…she is way too hot for this little bar, for sure, all big dark eyes and sleek curves. She’s got on a short black skirt that looks like it might actually be part of her skin, and that ass, seriously…Dean’s still in the process of fully appreciating all her assets when Jax pushes his chair back and acts like he’s about to get up. It startles Dean out of his trance and he reaches out, grabs a handful of Jax’ shirtsleeve.

“Dude. Who is that?”

“I don’t know, but I’m about to find out,” Jax says, and that seems weird, because it's a small town and Jax knows _everyone_. But he's already standing and wandering over, not fast, but not nearly as casual as what Dean’s seen from him in the past. Dean frowns at Jax’s retreating back.

Dean sighs. He can’t really blame Jax. She’s gorgeous and Dean’s strongly considering making a move on her himself, Jax be damned—or hell, seeing if they’re interested in a threesome. Dean watches him test the waters, then smile down at her with a self-deprecating duck of his head that makes Dean roll his eyes, because…lame. It doesn’t look like Jax is having to work very hard at it, to be honest; she’s all but climbing into his lap already. It sets Dean’s teeth on edge.

Regardless, Dean figures he’s going to have to either approach them or leave pretty soon, because sitting here staring is too creepy, not that he’s the only one looking at the pair of them. Dean just made up his mind to go over when Jax abruptly tosses some cash onto the bar. They're gone before Dean’s out of his chair.

 _Shit_. Dean leans back and shrugs it off with a sigh. He checks the time—11:30. He could look for a place to stay the rest of the night, but he figures he’s got at least four hours of driving in him before he has to pull over and sleep for a while. He might as well make a start on it.

The Impala is parked a couple of streets over from the bar. Fucking Lodi taught him not to leave his baby to the dubious mercy of drunken assholes in bar parking lots. He’d rather walk a ways than be out the time, work, and the rise in his blood pressure another dent in the Impala would cost him.

It was hot earlier in the day and the air is still fairly warm even this close to midnight. Dean’s sweating, his shirt damp and cooling against his back by the time he passes the mouth of the first alleyway. He’s almost past the opening when a soft sound has him flattening himself against the side of the building, listening.

It’s kind of a hiss and his first thought is “cat,” but an alley cat wouldn’t have the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Dean melts into the shadows and creeps around the corner, inching closer until his eyes adjust enough to see two figures standing a few yards down the dark passage.

Apparently Jax and the hot chick couldn’t wait to get somewhere more private. Dean should really leave them to it, but his gut is screaming “wrong” and he can’t think why, except for the fact that Jax is the one who looks pinned up against the wall instead of the girl. He hears the noise again. A bulb over an adjacent doorway casts a stingy glow, enough for Dean to see the sudden flash of way too many teeth. _Goddamned vampire._

Dean needs a weapon, but he’s not in the habit of carrying a machete into bars and Jax will be dead long before he can get back here with one, so he does the only thing he can.

He slips up behind the monster, sweating every step. She’s distracted, caught up in the kill and he gets a lot closer than he’d figured. Dean lunges for the big knife Jax carries on his belt and snags it, grabs a handful of her hair with his other hand and jerks her head backward, slices viciously across her throat before she can throw him off. Blood spurts, dark and stinking, spraying over all three of them in a coarse, cold spatter.

Dean holds on desperately. He's only going to get one chance. He wrestles the struggling creature to the ground, sawing at her throat with all his strength. It’s hard work, tendons and gristle snapping and giving way grudgingly, and Dean blesses Jax for keeping his knife sharp as he slides it between the bones of the vertebrae and slices, pries them apart, kicking the severed head away when he’s done just to make sure.

Dean leans with his hands on his knees for a minute, trying to catch his breath. He glances at Jax. He looks pole-axed. He blinks at Dean and starts to say something, then seems to choke on it. His body curls in on itself and he vomits next to the dumpster. The bulk of the container is more or less blocking the view from the street and Dean’s happy for small favors because this is a hell of mess and he’s not seeing any realistic way to clean it up without being spotted.

He’s actually kind of glad for the puking, too. It gives him a minute to figure out what to tell Jax. Plus, he can probably find a way to use it against him later.

Dean checks over his shoulder for inconvenient witnesses and approaches Jax cautiously. He seems to be through heaving, now having progressed to the spitting and mouth-wiping stage, but the mess isn’t what makes Dean wary. It’s hard to predict how a person is going to react to suddenly being forced to admit the existence of the supernatural. Dean’s seen guys that look like NFL linebackers curl up into shivering balls of panic and sweet little grandmothers ready to pick up a shotgun and fight.

Jax straightens up and Dean watches him carefully. He looks a little shaky, no surprise there, glance flicking from Dean to the messy corpse and back for a few seconds, but he seems pretty calm overall.

Standard shock-and-awe response, then. Dean can deal with that.

“You all right?” he asks. It’s a stupid question, really, but there are only so many possible openers to the unpleasant conversation they’re about to have.

Jax wipes his hand across his mouth, shakes his head slightly. It only takes him a couple of tries to force some intelligible words out. Dean’s actually a little impressed.

“What the fuck just happened here?”

“The short version? I saved your lily ass from a vampire.”

“ _What?_ Are you _insane_?” Jax hisses, eyes darting to the knife still in Dean’s hand. He doesn’t actually back away, but he looks like he wants to.

Dean sighs. Typical Civilian Response #1: One of us is crazy and I’m desperately hoping it isn’t me.

“You saw the big scary teeth, right?” Dean asks rhetorically. They’d have been hard for Jax to miss, poised inches from his jugular.

Dean’s watching Jax, trying to give him the time he understandably needs to process this clusterfuck, but he’s a little distracted by a vague ache that seems to be starting up somewhere underneath his ribs. He associates it with thoughts of Sammy and he’s not sure what set it off.

Then it hits him: this is the first time he’s had the “monsters are real” conversation with someone he cares…knows since he had to have it with his kid brother. He has a sudden suspicion that he’ll be the one puking behind the dumpster if he tries to talk much right now, so he opts for a little show and tell. Without the “tell.”

He pulls out his pocket flashlight and squats down next to the bloody remains. He nudges the severed head with the tip of his fingers and it rolls toward Jax in an obscene parody of mobility. The dull eyes in the formerly pretty face give the creepy impression that they’re looking at him and Jax makes a noise of revulsion, but Dean grits his teeth and keeps going, figures ripping off the bandage quickly is the best plan, now that he’s started. He pulls back the vampire’s upper lip and presses down, forcing the nasty, curved fang to partially extrude from its sheath.

“Jesus,” Jax breathes, closing his eyes briefly. “Should we…call somebody…or something? I mean, dead body…don’t we need to…”

“Call the cops? You got a story that explains me standing over a decapitated corpse with your bloody knife in my hand? One that doesn’t end with both of us under high security lockdown? Because trust me, Jax. ‘But, Officer, she was a vampire’ really doesn’t work all that well.”

“Yeah, um…I guess not,” Jax allows.

Movement near the alley’s mouth catches Dean’s eye. _Shit._ The colored lights crawling steadily down the walls toward them don’t mean Christmas came early this year. Somebody already called the cops.

Dean reaches for Jax, pulling him toward the other end of the alley with a hand balled up in the shoulder of his shirt. There’s a shout behind them, followed by running feet headed their way.

There’s only one thing to do.

“Run!” he barks. Jax turns without a word and takes off, Dean hard on his heels.

They tear out of the alley and go full out. Dean follows Jax’ lead; it’s his town. They twist in and out of nameless streets, jump fences and weave between houses until Dean really has no idea where they are. He runs.

The wind in his ears blocks out every other sound, sends warm summer smells of cut grass and chlorine curling through his sinuses. Dean feels a sudden sharp rush explode through his veins, followed by a burst of energy. He could do this all night, muscles working, lungs pumping, slight tingling thrill between his shoulder blades from knowing they’re being pursued. Outrunning this kind of trouble shouldn’t feel this good.

Dean can feel the wild grin straining the muscles of his face. If he had the breath to spare, he’d laugh out loud. God bless endorphins. _Hit me with your best shot…nothing can touch me._

They run for long minutes, or it could be only seconds—Dean’s got no idea how far they’ve come when Jax finally slows in a grassy, open area. It’s probably not very far at all, considering the size of Charming. It looks like they’re in a park, Dean thinks, as he jogs to a stop next to Jax. Then he takes a second look at his surroundings and he can’t contain it anymore. He busts out laughing.

It’s a cemetery. Of course.

“I think we’re okay here,” Jax says, panting. “And what’s so fucking funny about this, you sick bastard?”

Dean’s laughter exhausts itself and he just shakes his head in answer. He’s starting to come down from the high, feeling the mess drying stiff on his shirt. He looks pointedly at the sticky knife still in his hand and Jax follows his line of sight.

“Come on. I think there’s some water over here,” Jax says.

They find the tap and strip off their shirts, rinsing them out and using them to scrub off the remaining blood, slurping drinks of sweet cold water straight from the faucet, sluicing it over their heads. It feels so fucking good, clean and cool, the warm, dry air already pulling the moisture from Dean’s skin.

Dean wanders to the shadow of a weeping willow and, satisfied that they’re under enough cover for the moment, flops down onto his back underneath the canopy of the tree. The grass is a little itchy on his bare skin, but he can’t care too much. He has to figure out how to get back to his car and out of here eventually, but the monster’s dead and Jax is okay and right now Dean is the _man_.

Jax collapses beside him, still panting.

“Why do you look so happy, you crazy-ass son of a bitch?” Jax asks accusingly.

“I’m alive. Plus, I’m not an out-of-shape chain-smoker like you, fucker,” Dean says, smirking.

“Fuck off,” Jax exhales, slumping back onto the grass spread eagle beside Dean.

Dean grins up at the branches above him and looks beyond to the stars glittering between the sharp edges of the leaves, slicing the dark sky into jagged pieces, like bits of broken glass. There are engines rumbling in the distance, streetlights humming a little closer, but Dean figures the cemetery is situated near the outskirts of town like they usually are out west, because none of the background noise is loud enough to drown out the cricket song. It’s a small-town silence.

Dean smoothes his hand across his bare stomach and he shivers, aftereffects of the adrenaline starting to kick in, bringing on the familiar fine trembles in his hands. It’s always worse coming down from a solo hunt, as his mind starts replaying the fight, showing him all the ways he could have died bloody with no one to back him up.

“Man, wish I had a drink right now,” Dean sighs.

“Can’t help you there, but maybe…” Jax reaches into his pocket and produces a slightly crumpled joint and lights it, offering it to Dean. He waves it off when Dean tries to pass it back, just pulls out another one and starts on that. Dean chuckles around a lungful of smoke.

They lie there smoking companionably for a while, until Dean’s relaxed to the point of feeling boneless, melted and poured out on the ground in a puddle. He feels better than he has in weeks and he’s got to wonder a little at his life, what kind of existence he’s leading where this is the best it gets. It doesn’t take him long to shake off the thought. It’s an old song and he's not in a singing mood.

Jax chuckles.

“What?” Dean asks, word slipping out nasal with drowsiness.

“All this time I’ve been wondering who the hell you were—turns out you’re really Buffy Summers.”

Dean answers with a raised middle finger, all he’s got the energy and interest for.

“Don’t be like that, baby. You’re still prettier than her,” Jax says.

“Go ahead and talk shit…you know, since you still can...thanks to me.”

Jax has nothing to say to that, apparently, which is fine with Dean. The last thing he needs is some big sappy gratitude scene. Of course, he knows Jax well enough by now that he trusts him not to go there.

Dean’s thoughts have shifted back to worrying about the Impala when Jax reaches out, palms Dean’s shoulder and squeezes. Something in the air between them changes with the movement. Dean feels suddenly heavy and strained, full to overflowing like a dam that’s slowly cracking under the weight of water, all the bullshit his life has become since Sam walked out threatening to start spilling out.

Talk about a scene Dean doesn’t need.

He swallows hard, and an embarrassing little noise he’ll totally deny later catches in his throat. He watches Jax out of the corner of his eye. He’s not looking at Dean, but he doesn’t take his hand away either, just keeps up a sort of rhythmic squeezing as he works his way gradually lower on Dean’s arm.

Dean wonders what the hell is the deal with this guy. It’s not like they can’t keep their hands off each other—he doesn’t even think about sex in connection with Jax when they’re in public—but somehow every time Dean’s around Jax this is where they wind up. It’s only the third time, but this is still the most regular thing he’s had with anybody since high school. It sounds pretty pathetic to Dean, even in his head, but the weed haze makes him not care too much. Jax runs a finger down the inside of Dean’s elbow and he shivers, goose bumps raising the hairs on his forearm.

Jax rolls his head toward Dean, but Dean doesn’t look back, closes his eyes instead.

“You like my hand on you?” Jax says, voice about two octaves lower than normal.

Dean turns just far enough to see Jax’s eyes glitter under the shitty blue-green cemetery lighting before closing his own again.

“Like it better if it was a lot lower,” Dean says finally.

The words haven’t completely left his lips when he feels Jax moving toward him, over him, and that’s why it’s so easy for Jax to close his mouth over Dean’s, slide his tongue inside, slick and hot. And they don’t do this, but Dean is stoned and Jax might be and that’s Dean’s excuse, the reason Jax goes so slow, uncharacteristically gentle. It’s what makes Dean pull Jax’s head down and kiss back hard.

They make out like teenagers and Dean can’t be bothered to feel weird about it, he’s just enjoying the feeling, tongue curling and licking hot against his, sharp edge of teeth and soft suction, Jax lazily rolling his hips against Dean’s, drag of damp denim across his increasingly interested dick.

Dean lets the tension build slowly, listening to their harsh breathing, pushing up against Jax, rubbing his thigh between Jax’ legs until he groans. The heat from Jax’s dick bleeds through two layers of damp denim, soaking into the cold skin of his thigh. The contrast makes him shiver and Jax rumbles a laugh against his mouth.

“Fucker,” Dean mutters. He shoves with his boot heel against the ground and flips them. He braces his forearm across Jax’ chest, pops the button of his jeans and pulls them open, grinning when there’s no underwear, nothing between him and hot, smooth skin. He palms Jax, pressing the heat of his dick against his stomach, chilled and pebbling rough when Jax shudders. Jax bucks his hips under Dean’s hand and Dean chuckles low and dirty.

It’s a little more effort to uncover his own neglected dick but the second he does, Jax reaches out snake-strike quick and wraps his fingers around Dean. It shoves Dean across the line—there’s no more thought of slow and he grinds his hips into Jax’ and starts up a rolling rhythm, fucking into his hand, leaning down to bite at his mouth, leaving marks on his neck and shoulders.

Jax reacts in kind, clawing at Dean’s hips and latching on with both hands, thumbs in the groove of Dean’s hipbones, pulling him down harder against him and rutting, straining and cursing. Dean loses himself in the hard slide, sweet drag of soft hot skin against sensitive flesh, getting slicker by the minute with sweat and arousal. He puts his hand down, wants to feel it, plays his fingers through the moisture, shuddering when his thumb slides across the head of his cock. Then he circles his fingers around Jax, pulling and stroking, hot and hard.

They’re too fried from the kill and the chase for either of them to last long and Jax falls first, groaning long and dirty as he comes hot and thick over Dean’s fingers. The sensation of slick heat hits Dean hard. He strains for two more strokes and then he’s gone too, panting, slamming his hips down hard against Jax and holding, shaking as the pinching thrills of the aftershocks pulse through his body.

Jax lets him lie there until the trembling calms and their breathing slows, then gives Dean’s shoulder a hard shove, dumps him off onto the ground. Dean raises his hips off the ground and pulls his jeans up far enough to keep the grass from crawling up his asscrack, then flops back down, reaching for his shirt to clean himself up.

“You got a place to spend the night?” Jax asks.

Dean snorts softly.

“I think the night’s pretty much over.” He pauses. “Won’t be the first one I’ve spent in a cemetery,”

“I don't even want to know what that means,” Jax says.

It’s peaceful out here and there’s enough of a breeze to make it pleasant. Dean’s just trying to enjoy the moment, put off thinking about how he’s going to get back to his car without winding up behind bars, when Jax breaks the silence again.

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“Sam.”

Dean drops his baby brother’s name onto the still air without much thought and maybe that was a mistake, but he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t take it back even if he could. And there’s worse coming anyway; Dean can feel it. Jax is about to say something Dean’s going to regret hearing, but he waits for it in silence, trying not to let his mind wander west while he does.

“My little brother’s name was Thomas. Tommy.”

The past tense says it all, but Dean can’t bring himself to wish Jax had kept quiet. Because he gets it. Jax isn’t trying to guilt Dean into being thankful for what he has; he’s trusting Dean with a little piece of his life, and nobody knows the price of that kind of confidence better than Dean. Dean owes it to him to listen, and he turns his head to look at him so that Jax will know that he is listening.

“He’s buried right here, in this cemetery. Him and my Dad.”

There’s really nothing Dean can say to that. “I’m sorry” is something he tells victims when he’s on the job, just a way to get through the awkward moments. It’s not how you talk to a friend. Dean takes in a deep breath and sighs it out heavily. And maybe that’s answer enough.

“I’m glad Sam’s okay,” Jax says, after a minute.

It’s a throwaway line, as cliché as “I’m sorry,” something Dean might even make fun of Jax for in the daylight, but here and now it makes Dean ache. Jax means it and all Dean can think is _that makes three of us then_ , but he doesn’t say that to Jax.

“Me, too,” he murmurs, instead.

It’s really all he’s got.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware that canon indicates Dean has no preseries contact with vampires, per Dean's comments to John regarding vampires in Dead Man's Blood.


End file.
